


the places you've been

by raregoose



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: First Time, Getting Together, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-04-23 20:10:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19158127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raregoose/pseuds/raregoose
Summary: Sometimes Elias doesn't understand Brock at all, like when they're at the team function and Brock's got a random girl in his lap who Elias will probably never see again.Sometimes Elias thinks he and Brock are one and the same, like when they're on the bench and Elias pats him on the leg to say "Their guy in the middle—" and Brock finishes his thought for him, saying "—he's cutting in to block the pass, I saw that too".Elias tries to fit the puzzle of Brock together, to put every piece in the space it belongs, but he's learning quickly that when it comes to the NHL, and especially when it comes to Brock, spaces warp and change.





	the places you've been

**Author's Note:**

> petey sucks at hockey (said no one ever)
> 
> a few months ago i joked a little on twitter about brock getting repeatedly dumped like every other week bc he's trying to fuck out his crush on his rookie and failing miserably. the concept developed from there as i wrote it but that's certainly the heart of where i was coming from writing this. im kinda a part-time half canucks fan so hopefully i can do everyone justice and lmk if something is just horribly off-base! (the timeline is purposely very handwavey and i know its off at some points, dont think too hard about that part)
> 
> they really are so sweet and i adore their friendship! this is a little love letter to both of them; i really hope you enjoy it!
> 
> (ps, a few squick/content warnings: first is that elias' family shows up here and there in the fic, second is that there is implied in-universe homophobia. i approached this w the mindset of an nhl w plenty of out players and a lot more societal acceptance, but things like YCP still exist etc. theres no scenes w any homophobia but it can be inferred by a few moments so heads up on that)

“Just watch Brock, kid,” Coach tells Elias on the first day.

“Okay,” Elias says.

*

So he does. He observes Brock like he’s a zoo animal. He watches how he prepares for games, what he eats, the way he smiles and laughs and is perfectly personable to every fan that approaches them in the streets. Brock has an ease to him that Elias does not. Elias wonders if it’s the language thing, or the rookie thing, or just somehow a _Brock_ thing.

He knows Brock is like him; he was _the_ rookie last year. He knows that the places Brock’s been are the same ones he’ll walk this year. He tries to put his feet into the footprints Brock has left but they don’t quite fit, not exactly. He and Brock, they’re similar, but not the same. Elias skates beside him and feels the fuzzy space between them overlap only along the edges.

Brock answers any and all of his questions patiently and thoughtfully during training camp, and he always has an answer when Elias asks, “What does this word mean?”

“Brock’s gonna be playing on your wing,” Coach says one morning.

“Okay,” Elias replies.

Brock’s recovering from a slew of injuries and always seems to be icing _something_ in the locker room, gesturing to a trainer who puts a latex-gloved hand on his shoulder and nods. Elias feels his English vocabulary roll back to zero when he tries to understand the trainers, who seem to only speak in the riddles of medication and muscle groups. He’s never needed to know _ham-string_ to do an interview in English before, and that’s not the type of word that shows up on TV, so he repeats them all carefully one-by-one and ends up asking Brock about it later anyway.

Brock plays on his wing. It’s great. It’s perfect. It’s NHL hockey and it’s everything Elias could’ve ever wanted. The people of Vancouver rise for him like parishioners in a church; they scream for him like a rock star. Elias feels the space that he occupies widen and stretch. He takes up more space here in Vancouver, where there’s always someone around the corner waiting for an autograph.

“You’ll get used to it,” Brock laughs, taking the Sharpie and signing the little kid’s baseball cap.

“Never,” Elias responds.

*

He gets to know the guys quickly, starting with the Swedes and spreading outward. They’re a close group, which goes against what Elias expects of a team that hasn’t been in playoffs, but he’s not complaining. They welcome him into their circle best they can, turning his name into “Petey” and asking him about Sweden and the pictures online of him covered in gold paint.

Elias finds a new home in his cozy stall in the locker room, in his favorite seat in the player lounge. He takes comfort in even, controlled environments, in being able to sit at the same table and eat the same thing and talk to the same people at the same time every morning. He likes to observe, to take in the quirks and idiosyncrasies of each of the guys, pick up their physical and linguistic cues. They called him weird and over-analytical when he was young. In the NHL, the analysts on TV call it “IQ” and “hockey sense”, which sounds a little better.

He’s considering Jake as he struggles with the coffee-maker and reflecting on this one morning early in the season, when he’s interrupted.

“Hey Petey.” Elias looks up to see Bo sitting next to him, watching him carefully. He's big close up. “So, you got a girlfriend back home or something? Handsome guy like you?”

Elias runs his tongue and his words along his teeth.

“No,” he says, truthfully. _Girlfriend_ , he thinks.

“Cap!” And in comes Brock, laughing his bright loud laugh that sounds like it comes from a movie. “Quit interrogating the rookie!” He noogies Bo. Elias considers the nickname, Cap, mouthing it to himself.

“Don't worry ‘bout it, Petey,” Brock says, plopping himself down at the table next to Elias. “Not all of us can be getting married like _someone_ over here.” He tosses a glance over at Bo, who is sighing to himself.

“Not all of us get dumped every other week,” Bo shoots back.

Elias rolls over those words again in his mind, capturing them in a mental bottle and reviewing them to help think about English. Bo’s getting married, and Brock’s getting dumped, he reasons. _Not all of us_ , he repeats in his head. He translates it into Swedish and then back into English, getting a feel for the construction. He loses himself in the syntax of it for a second, forgetting to think about the semantics at all.

But the boys are chirping so he recenters himself into the moment and laughs when Brock makes fun of Bo’s haircut. He likes Bo. Bo is straight-laced and kind. He’s young and old at the same time. He talks taxes and mortgages with the old guys then turns around and shit-talks with the best of the young guys. _Cap_ , Elias thinks, and he thinks Brock might be right.

Brock swings an arm around Elias’ shoulders and laughs his movie-character laugh, drawing a smile out of Elias. He likes Brock, too. Brock is friendly and he laughs at everything and anything. He’s easy to be around. He’s attractive like a movie star. He likes Brock, he thinks, but he doesn’t like Brock the way he likes Bo. 

Elias is only nineteen, but he’s not stupid about things. He knows he’s attracted to Brock, at the very least physically. He’s been attracted to plenty of people before. But he’s taken aback by Brock’s natural magnetism, whatever strange charisma he has to cause Elias to sink into the arm wrapped around his neck instead of retracting away from it. 

Elias doesn’t really like touching people. He’s not much one to date, and the hookups that he has had have left him feeling slimy all over afterward, like the touch is crawling under his skin and trying to escape. 

Back home they call him _The Alien_ because he plays like he’s from another planet. Some nights Elias looks up at the sky and wonders if there’s truth to it.

*

He’s not sure if he notices it _because_ of Bo’s offhanded chirp, or if it’s just that obvious, but Elias realizes quickly that Brock _does_ seem to get dumped a lot. Like, a _lot_. They both spend time injured at the start of the season, Brock dealing with lingering issues and Elias dealing with getting pile-driven into the ice against Florida, but still, Elias is pretty sure he meets at least three beautiful blonde women on Brock’s arm in the first half of the season alone. 

The first one lasts a while; there are stories about her from the summer and Elias even meets her during pre-season, but in mid-October Brock shows up to the rink looking dejected with his hat pulled low over his eyebrows.

There’s a second on Halloween, dressed up next to Brock in a tight little dress. They’re supposed to be characters from some American TV show; she hangs off his arm like she’s an accessory. They kiss and dance all night, but Elias doesn’t even have a chance to learn her name before a few weeks pass and she and Brock are getting in shouting matches over the phone that are too fast for Elias to translate in his head.

Brock throws his phone on the hotel room floor with an exasperated cry before carefully scooping it back up and examining it for damage.

“Women, huh?” Brock says, smiling weakly at Elias.

 _Women_ , Elias thinks. He nods at Brock and returns to the group message between him, Emil, and Fanny, telling them about the roadie so far.

Rooming with Brock is interesting, at least. Elias likes him a little more each day and being his roommate doesn’t help the situation, not when Brock stumbles out of the bathroom with only a towel slung low around his hips and shaving cream covering his face, asking if he can borrow Elias’ razor.

“I always fuckin’ forget,” he laughs. Elias laughs too, and passes him his razor.

“You look like Santa,” Elias says, deadpan. Brock laughs at that too, shaving cream dripping down onto his perfectly toned chest. “Laugh like him, too.”

Brock just keeps _ho-ho-ho-_ ing and Elias likes him _so_ much. He likes his laugh and the way he’s patient with Elias until he understands exactly what he means. He likes his physical pull, the thing that always makes Elias want to touch him, and he likes how nervous that makes him.

Nerves can be good, sometimes.

*

And at the very least, Elias is good at compartmentalizing. He keeps himself in boxes. Swedish Elias stays at home and on phone calls with friends from home. Fun Elias is reserved for the team, in the locker room where he feels like he can let his guard down without it being analyzed frame-by-frame by Canadians on Twitter. Attracted-To-Brock Elias stays in his bedroom and his shower.

On-Ice Elias is his favorite one. Everything else disappears when he’s on ice: language, anxiety, pain, everything is swallowed by the adrenaline and the pounding bass of the arena. Hockey is like breathing. It’s instinct, to deke and shoot and pass. Nothing registers beyond _try to score_ , not even when he gets tripped but still manages to throw back a tape-to-tape pass to Brock in the slot for an easy goal.

“You’re fucked! That was fucked! _Holy_ fuck!” Brock’s post-goal vocabulary is usually limited to the f-word and yelling into Elias’ face. Elias likes _fuck_ because it means anything and everything. The glass ripples behind them as fans pound into it, rising to their feet for him as if Elias has them on strings.

Brock shakes his head on the bench and laughs about it, but Elias just shrugs. He had a good feeling. He’s starting to understand where Brock is and where he goes, the space he inhabits on the ice. He knew he’d be there, backing him up.

He wishes he could understand the same thing off-ice, the space Brock takes up in the world. Brock disappears into the back of a bar with another beautiful blonde, and tells everyone that they’re _seeing each other_ by the end of the week. Elias wonders about the difference between seeing someone and _seeing someone_ , and he wonders if he can truly see Brock for who he is. He thinks about seeing Brock, but something in one box leaks into another and he starts thinking about _seeing_ Brock, and then he’s all red in the locker room and Alex is looking at him funny.

She dumps Brock by next week anyway. Brock comes into the rink that day talking fast at Troy, who just nods and lets him go. Elias is sitting and eating breakfast silently with Bo, and when Troy and Brock arrive, Brock walks off muttering to himself about cutting some sticks and Troy plops down next to Bo.

“He okay?” Bo asks, nodding his head in the direction of Brock’s fading footsteps.

“He’ll be fine,” Troy says, waving a hand. “I guess every girl he’s been with lately has told him that he’s… distracted, or something like that.”

“Distracted?” Elias asks, pausing.

“I think…” Troy taps his fingers on the table, considering. “I think Brock only _thinks_ he wants a hot blonde girlfriend right now.”

Troy and Bo share a look. Elias shrugs. He’s given up understanding the ways of Brock’s dating habits. He doesn’t get it, and he thinks he probably never will. Brock’s just _Brock_ , in his weird own way.

*

“I don't really get it,” Elias eventually admits. “How you can keep getting dumped.”

“Huh?” Brock replies. They’re in a hotel, and Brock’s just been dumped _again_. It’s just barely January, and Elias already knows the song and dance like the back of his hand.

“Well, it's just,” Elias gestures vaguely to Brock's body. “You look like... _that_.”

Brock peers curiously at Elias for a moment, taken aback by the statement. Elias doesn't understand.

“Oh.” Brock puts his hands carefully on his knees. He bows his head, and it almost seems to Elias that he's embarrassed. Elias wonders if he said the wrong thing. It's just that it's true. Brock _does_ look like that. Elias should know; he's been appreciating it for months.

*

They ship Elias out to San Jose to fawn over him at the All Star game. A camera crew follows him around all weekend as he does the league’s song-and-dance and meets the league’s best players. They’re all great and friendly, but he’s got his head on a swivel for the Swedes, Karlsson and Landeskog, guys to talk to in his own words. 

They find him first. Karlsson sneaks up behind him on their first night, chattering at him in Swedish. It’s music to Elias’ ears; Burns and Pavelski wait and watch awkwardly behind them as they chat away about the weekend and Elias does his best to convince him to sign with the Canucks next season.

He and Landeskog flank Elias during the competition and ask him about the season so far, bouncing back and forth between English and Swedish so fast that Elias can’t keep track of which is which. Burns’ kids approach Karlsson and he stops mid-sentence to flip into English, picking up one of them and spinning them around as they giggle and squeal. Rantanen comes over to chirp Landeskog through his Finnish accent, and Elias swears that whatever language they’re speaking to one another is some bastardized mixture of all three.

Elias does his competition, takes a photo with the other rookie from Dallas, does his required social media with the Vancouver media team trailing him, and at the end of the night he puts his suit back on just like it’s a normal gameday.

His shirt smells like home, like clothes forgotten and left at his apartment by visiting friends and family. In his Vancouver apartment he always sinks his face into Emil’s hoodie whenever he feels weird and floaty; in the San Jose locker room all he can do is subtly nestle his chin into his collar and inhale as deeply as he can. 

The guys from Colorado are shouting about hitting a bar, and Landeskog makes his way to Elias to say, “You can come if you want; don’t worry about getting carded or anything,” in Swedish.

He looks questioningly at Karlsson, who shrugs and nods, so Elias follows them dutifully to the bar and watches the guys from the Central get absolutely _hammered_. They stay fairly segregated by division; Elias finds himself between Karlsson and McDavid, who’s sucking on some pink drink through a straw.

“Hey kid,” he says to Elias. “You’re pretty fuckin’ good, eh?”

 _Kid_ , Elias thinks. “Thanks,” he says. “You’re alright.”

It’s deadpan, and McDavid looks at him emptily for a second, but then he drops a hand to the bar and laughs, throaty and full.

It’s nice, but it’s not like hanging out with the guys in Vancouver. Elias feels out of place here in San Jose, everything sandy and sunny and framed perfectly on Instagram. After an hour Karlsson buys him an Uber and walks out with him.

“You’ll get used to it,” he reassures with a friendly shoulder pat.

 _Never_ , Elias thinks as he climbs into the Uber.

*

He goes to another bar in early February, but this one is in Vancouver and he’s with the guys from his team, _his_ guys. They all need a break and some fun. Elias is squished into the booth between Antoine and Ben, slowly drinking a beer and listening to the conversation. _Half_ -listening is closer to the truth, because he’s also watching Brock carefully, sitting at the bar away from everyone else, laughing at something some skinny blonde guy is saying.

He laughs at something Troy says, but Troy must notice the distance in it, because he follows Elias’ line of sight, turning to look over his shoulder at Brock too. Brock tilts his head back and laughs, letting his hand fall on the blonde guy’s shoulder. Troy turns back and looks pensively at Elias.

“Oh boy,” he says quietly. That catches the attention of the other guys too, and they’re looking over at the scene as well. Now the blonde guy’s messing with Brock’s hair, pulling off his snapback and tousling it in the front until Brock laughs again and swats his hands away. Brock nods at the bartender and two more beers slide down the bar.

Bo shakes his head at the table. “He shouldn’t do that. Or, it’s up to him, I suppose, but he should know better than anyone…” he trails off, looking up at Troy and then following Troy’s gaze to look at Elias. Elias feels stuck in the moment, watching Brock and this other guy laugh and share casual arm touches. He can feel the other guys’ eyes on him. “Brock knows that this league is a zoo,” Bo says, an air of finality to it. It's a captain's statement, an assurance that they're meant to listen to.

“The guys Brock brings home are pretty nice,” Troy says, almost an edge in his voice. Elias blinks. It feels directed at him, in a strange way. Elias thinks over the sentence. He knows what all the words mean. It’s a simple declarative sentence, no weird structure to stump him. Elias should know what Troy’s saying. But it feels like there’s another layer that he’s missing, like there’s meaning in the sentence beyond the translation of each word, something in Troy’s gaze or the way he’s holding his hands flat on the table.

Elias looks at him but says nothing. “I’m just saying,” Troy continues. “Like, You Can Play, and shit like that—” he chews the inside of his cheek “—it’s, it’s important, y’know.”

Elias nods, still not sure what Troy’s trying to say.

“He’s brave,” is all he can manage. It’s true. Elias looks up again, watching Brock help the blonde guy pull his jacket on.

Troy blinks at him then, and softens slightly on his edges. Elias, again, doesn’t understand his body language. He shrugs it off, and tries to ignore the ugly feelings in his stomach as the blonde guy pulls Brock out of the bar by the hand. There’s an edge of almost hopefulness to it, knowing that Brock is attracted to guys, dates and takes guys home, but the ugliness turns it all grey. It crumples the box in his chest that he keeps his hope in.

The guy looked _just_ like Elias. Blonde and skinny and barely taller than Brock. Jealousy churns inside him. He hates it, hates thinking that if Brock likes skinny blondes so much, why not _him?_ He can’t help but think about how he’s exactly Brock’s type and how Brock knows him so well that he doesn’t even have to start spewing Swenglish on the bench before Brock knows exactly what he’s seeing on the play. 

The places Brock’s been are the places Elias is visiting for the first time this year. Elias sees his footsteps beside him but he’s taking his own path. Brock’s up ahead, but Elias wants him next to him, wants him to wait a while. He wishes he was better at keeping himself in boxes; he wishes they weren’t leaking everywhere and getting all over everything.

*

Elias wonders about the places Brock has been. The apartments and dimly-lit restaurants in Vancouver, bent over tiramisu with a beautiful stranger. But on Elias' skin, too, hugs and high-fives and helmet-taps. Brock has been on Elias, handprints stuck on his skin. Elias never really liked touching people before.

*

They’re in Arizona at the end of February. Tuscon isn’t even that close to Glendale, because it seems like everything is bigger in North America, and Emil’s busy with his own team, but Fanny makes the drive to come eat dinner with him when they have a free night. They find some restaurant downtown and talk for a long time. Elias is glad to have her in his life; she’s kind and easy to talk to about everything he can’t talk to Emil about.

Namely, boys. Emil wouldn’t understand, as much as he’d try. But Fanny knows exactly what Elias means when he crunches down on an ice cube with his molars and grumbles, “He drives me crazy.”

Fanny reaches across the table to take his free hand in both of hers. “It’s what boys do best,” she says. The sounds of the restaurant fill a beat of silence; Elias hears laughter, the _cling_ -ing of two glasses hit together.

“This year hasn’t gone to plan,” Elias says. Some of it for good, some for bad, and some for… weird.

“Show me a year that has,” Fanny laughs, picking her wine glass up and gesturing at Elias with it. Elias smiles, because Fanny always knows just what to say. Something about the rhythm of sounds in the restaurant, the putter of the conversation and the tempo of forks hitting plates, makes him feel okay. It’s even, controlled. He knows what to expect in a restaurant chair, sitting across from Fanny and talking about life.

Elias trudges sleepily back to the room after dinner. His phone is dead and he’s ready to fall directly into bed and sleep for as long he’s allowed to. As he fumbles with the key that’s been shoved into his wallet, he can hear Brock arguing in the room. He’s probably getting dumped over the phone. It’s par for the course at this point. Brock gets dumped, Brock mopes, Brock finds someone new nearly immediately because Brock is _Brock_ ; he makes everyone fall in love with him within minutes then can’t seem to keep them around.

Elias manages to get the key card to work and he’s stumbling into the room bleary-eyed to find that Brock is _not_ on the phone. Brock’s sitting on the bed, and the blonde guy from the bar is sitting on the other bed, _Elias’_ bed, and Brock looks like the guy just tore his heart out.

Elias watches with his mouth open as if frozen.

“Fuck—” Brock says.

“I—” Elias says.

“Sorry man,” the blonde guy says. He stands and walks past Elias, who is still frozen in place. “It’s been fun, dude, but you’ve got some real shit to work out.” He lets himself out, and the door falls shut with a slam behind him.

“Petey,” Brock says, standing. “I, uh, I texted you about giving me another five minutes?”

“Phone… died,” Elias says. The phone sits heavy in his slacks pocket.

“Well.” Brock is red and his smile is empty. It’s terrible. He looks like Poster Brock or Cardboard-Cutout Brock, like his body is there but his mind is somewhere else completely. He looks like he’s about to float out of the hotel room. “I just got dumped again, if you couldn’t tell.”

Elias walks carefully over toward his bed and sits in the space vacated by the blonde guy. The bedspread is wrinkled. The air isn’t any different where he was; there’s no real way anyone could know that a third person had ever been in the room. But as he sits, Elias feels a change, like he’s occupying a space he’s not allowed to. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Brock says. He walks over to the shelving along the wall and fiddles with the paper card that has the Wi-Fi password on it, tapping it against the wood.

“Hey.” Elias shifts his aching feet on the carpet. He’s still wearing his dress shoes. “Do you wanna, like, go downstairs and chill in the lobby for a bit? Or walk around the block? It’s nice out.”

Brock’s lower lip wobbles just a bit, but he’s nodding and saying, “Yeah, sounds good, bud.”

They take the stairs. Elias swipes them two cookies from the check-out desk while giving the PR smile that the Canucks people have been trying so hard to instill into him. He walks back to where Brock is standing, looking wrinkled in a hoodie and basketball shorts.

“Peanut butter?” he asks hopefully as Elias passes the cookie off.

“Of course,” Elias responds. Brock grins. Elias’ cookie is chocolate chip, and he bites into its soft surface. Brock takes a step toward the door and Elias follows his lead, out of the hotel and around the corner of the block.

“Can I ask you something?” Brock asks. 

“Sure.” Chocolate melts on Elias’ fingers.

“Do you date?” Brock leans forward and bites his cookie, chewing it contemplatively.

Elias lets out a little laugh of surprise. “Do I _date?_ ” He smiles at the ridiculousness of the question. It’s so broad and encompassing. Elias feels like he’d have to explain a million things before he could ever say _no_ , and he wouldn’t be able to say any of them in English. “Not lately,” he settles on, stepping over a crack in the pavement.

“Not enough cute Swedish girls in Vancouver?” Brock giggles breathily, but it dies quickly and then they’re both quiet again. They finish their cookies.

“No,” Elias says. “There’s plenty of beautiful people in Vancouver.” He fumbles with his choice of words in his head, getting them in a line before speaking. “It’s just… we’re zoo animals in the city. And I don’t have time to date if we can’t understand each other.”

“That’s fair,” Brock replies.

Elias wants to make a joke, poke fun at Brock by asking about _his_ dating habits since they’re a common chirp in the locker room, but he thinks that now might not be the time.

“Fanny keeps telling me I need to be dating someone by the time she and Emil get married,” he says instead, keeping it lighthearted.

Brock smiles at that. They pause at an intersection, waiting for their green light. “Well, handsome guy like you, I’m sure they’ll be falling all over you.”

Something warms in Elias hearing that, like a lightswitch getting flicked on. He loses a step, wobbling a bit and putting his feet in the wrong spots. “Uh,” he says. 

The light turns to the little walking man and they look both ways before crossing. “Oh, Petey, a little shy?” Brock giggles, bumping into Elias.

“No!” Elias protests.

Elias blushes and looks down, and Brock bursts into giggles. “Okay, sure, sure. All you need to do is ask, though, and I’ll set you up with a—” Brock’s sentence breaks there, just for a second, barely noticeable “—a nice girl for Fanny and Emil’s wedding.”

“Slow down, cowboy,” is all Elias says. “There’s no rush.”

On the way back to the hotel room, they steal two more cookies. Lying on their backs on the hotel beds, they talk Canadian politics like the good little part-timers they are and pretend that they know anything at all.

*

They get eliminated from playoff contention in late March.

“Well, fuck,” Brock says, staring at the standings on his phone. Elias bends over his shoulder to look at the screen, too. Brock’s hair tickles his ear. Elias vaguely registers in the back of his head how close their faces are, but he’s more concerned about the news. No playoffs. After being in a playoff spot the first half of the season. It stings.

Elias doesn’t say anything. 

Brock turns to him, and their faces are so close that Elias can feel Brock exhale out of his nose. Elias turns just barely, mostly just moving his eyes to make eye contact with Brock. “This summer,” Brock says, “after you win the Calder—”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Elias interjects. “With Binnington—”

“No, fuck Binnington,” Brock says, rolling his eyes. “ _Fuck_ that guy.” He pokes Elias’ shoulder. “You’re gonna win. And after you do, you should come visit me on the lake in Minnesota.”

Elias quirks the corner of his mouth up in a half-smile. “I’ll think about it,” he says. He knows his answer already.

*

There’s something actually kind of nice about the last few games after they’re eliminated. There’s no pressure anymore, just stupid questions about the drought and the Calder that he can’t answer. It’s easy to hang out with the guys on off-day nights, chilling and drinking beers because it’s not like they have to worry about what comes next.

They’re at Jacob’s house, hanging in the kitchen, Elias sitting at the counter next to Brock on a stool, his legs swinging out underneath him and brushing the floor. Brock has terrible taste in beer, but Elias forgives him because he’s American and he went to college, so he clearly just doesn’t know better. Brock’s arguing with Troy about basketball, another American and/or college thing he hasn’t quite figured out yet.

Elias finishes his own beer, watching them. He’s two deep, maybe three, and he’s glad they don’t have a game tomorrow because he’s feeling warm and fuzzy all over. He’s flushed all the way up to his pale hairline and he leans forward and smiles at the conversation, at their intense knowledge and opinions about it all.

“Any thoughts, Petey?” Brock says, reaching over and rubbing Elias’ back. Elias is bent all the way down on the counter now, head nestled into the crook of his elbow, sleepy with his hair flopping over his forehead.

“Mmm,” he says noncommittally. “No. Just like listening to you.”

Brock’s fingers curl against his back, pulling his palm away. Elias kind of wishes he hadn’t said that, but sometimes he can’t stop the words coming out of his mouth. In his warm bubble, all he can focus on is five fingertips pressing against his back.

Across the counter, Troy watches them both before turning around and grabbing two more beers and sliding them both across the counter. Brock pulls his hand away at the sound of the glass sliding on the marble. Elias, still lying his upper body on the counter, looks at Brock through alcohol-heavied eyelids and fumbles for his own beer.

Brock nearly chugs his, his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously. 

Elias only drinks about half of his before the room tilts on its axis and he decides to slow down. It’s nice to be a little drunk; he likes how English seems easier, the vocabulary not so far away. “You Americans have no style,” he laughs when Brock inevitably starts talking about how great bucket hats are, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Europeans all dress like you’re Dua Lipa’s sassy gay friend telling her not to pick up the phone.” Elias doesn’t know who Dua Lipa is but Brock continues on to chirp Elias for how tight his pants are and Elias can’t help but hiccup out a couple laughs.

“Shut up,” he says. “You love my tight pants!”

“All the people of Vancouver appreciate the tight pants,” Brock counters without missing a beat.

“Gotta give the people what they want.” Elias sends it right back, bantering with ease.

Brock opens his mouth, ready to fire off another joke about the people of Vancouver’s love affair with their brand-new Swede, but Troy interrupts them, saying, “Alright, I gotta get you two sloppy assholes home before you start talking about people lining up in the streets to suck Petey off.” He turns to grab his keys.

“They’d do it, too,” Brock says, low enough so only Elias can hear. He giggles, and Troy turns back around to stare at them with a brow cocked. Elias pinches his lips in and stifles his laughter, trying to hold a straight face. Troy just sighs and shakes his head, and then beckons them out of the kitchen so he can goad them into putting their shoes and jackets on.

“Pistol Pete, I’m driving you home, yeah?” Troy says as they walk out of the house.

“Please,” Elias nods as he stumbles over his own feet. “I’m sure as hell not walking home.” 

Brock grabs his forearm. Neither of them are holding a straight line, but Brock is less drunk than him, so Elias leans into the side of his body. The road is quiet, luckily, because the last thing Elias needs right now is people gawking at him like always. Brock’s arm is snaked around him, close and getting closer, Elias resting his head on his shoulder. Elias never liked touching people before, but Brock isn’t like other people. He’s magnetic, so that even when he slips Elias into the backseat, their arms slide against each other and Elias doesn’t pull away until another moment passes.

“Thanks for carrying me,” he says, and he intends for it to be sarcastic until his drunk brain tacks “ _käraste_ ” onto the end of the sentence. _Dearest_. Oops.

Brock’s eyes blow wide but he doesn’t ask; he shuts the door and clambers into the passenger seat, yanking his bucket hat lower over his ears.

Troy drives them through the neighborhood toward Elias’ apartment. Elias leans his head against the window and falls half asleep. Through his daze, he can hear Brock whisper-shouting furiously to Troy.

“What the _fuck_ , Stech? What does that mean?”

“Fuck if I know! I don’t speak Swedish!”

Brock groans. Elias slips into sleep for a moment. His brain doesn’t bother to think about what the conversation means. He just likes the sound of Brock’s voice.

Brock tries to repeat _käraste_ phonetically, saying “Sha-rah-stuh, no, no, shu-rah-steh, ugh, how the fuck do you _spell_ that?!”

Elias is barely awake, only aware of the gentle rocking of the car and Brock’s strong arms around him, unbuckling him and carrying him toward the door, when they stop.

“Keys—” Elias mutters.

“Front left pocket, I know,” Brock replies. When he reaches into the tight pocket of Elias’ pants, Elias can feel his hand against his thigh through the thin material of the pocket. Brock unlocks the door and carries Elias to bed.

“Brock,” Elias murmurs when he gets put down. Brock is bent over his body. Elias reaches up and grabs the hem of his shirt.

“Yeah?” Brock’s voice is breathless.

Elias tries to say something, anything, but his grip loosens. “You’re so…”

Drunk Elias speaks great English, but Underneath-Brock Elias, Brock’s eyes glittering in the dark, can’t even get out a full sentence.

When he wakes up the next morning he’s tucked in and there’s a bottle of Gatorade with two Advil resting on the cap on his nightstand. He curls his fingers around it and drinks it sloppily; it dribbles out of the corners of his mouth. It’s lukewarm, and he crinkles his nose, but when he puts it back down on the nightstand, clutter cleared by someone else’s hands to make space for it, he imagines the overlap in spaces, how Brock’s hands were here, shifting things around on the nightstand and wrapping his own hand around the slenderest section of the bottle.

Sometimes Elias feels so close to Brock it’s like he could crawl into his skin and see the world through his eyes. Sometimes it feels like they’re living the same life in different bodies, zoo animals in the same beautiful enclosure.

The condensation on the plastic bottle gives no hints of fingerprints besides his own. Elias takes his Advil and curls back into bed, texting his brother and scrolling through Instagram until he falls back asleep for a while.

*

They go their separate ways. Elias heads back to Sundsvall and Brock back to the lake. He’s feeling healthy enough and itching for more hockey, so Elias decides to go to the World Championships.

Bratislava is nice, though Elias doesn’t see much of it. They play hockey and speak Swedish and lose to the no-name Finns in the quarterfinals. Elias goes home with his friends in tow. They’re citizens now, and they have the paperwork to prove it.

The video of their reunion after the last game floats out on the internet through Fanny’s blog, and Elias is in the Sundsvall airport when Ben texts it in the groupchat saying, _petey you better hug me like this when i see you again in sept_ 😭💦👬😍👽

 _only if you get deported first_ , Elias responds.

 _getting deported so petey gives you the hug of a lifetime >>>_, Troy sends.

 _moving to sweden ASAP & cancelling my wedding_, Bo adds.

Brock chimes in with, _sucks for all yall bc i get petey hugs in june after he avenges me by winning the calder_ 😩

🙄 is all Elias sends, but he smiles down at his phone in the airport.

*

He’s getting used to the ever-present tug of jet lag, the feeling of playing catch-up with his own body. It’s just past midnight in Las Vegas and Elias stands with bare feet against the cold tile, splashing his face with warm water from the tap. His parents are asleep in the bed on the other side of the wall, and Emil and Fanny are one room further.

Elias stands and listens to the gentle _shh_ of the water coming from the tap. In around twelve hours the gauntlet starts again, the Vancouver PR person with their plastic smile trailing him with their cell phone out, the media people with their glassy eyes and too-fast words pointing their microphones everywhere, the other NHLers with their closed-off expressions and practiced turn of phrase. Everyone here is too much or not enough.

At the awards, he walks around with Rasmus and they both ignore Binnington. He wears his grin like a Stanley Cup ring and Elias and Rasmus wear their acne on sloppily shaved chins. They’re three very different players who had three very different seasons, and so the NHL lines them up in rows and ushers them into their seats and gives them trophies that don’t mean much at all.

In hockey, there’s only one trophy that means anything.

When they call his name as the recipient of the Calder Memorial Trophy, Elias' legs wobble but his voice doesn't. He thanks everyone he needs to thank and then walks off stage like a newborn fawn.

There's a thousand notifications instantly, family and friends and teammates congratulating him. Elias doesn't mean to, but the first he clicks is a text from Brock.

_when u get here tomorrow were gunna have the best fuckin week_

_you better treat me well or im gonna ditch you to visit hutty:/_ , Elias replies.

😂, Brock sends instantly. 

_huttys got nothin on the lake house_ , he adds.

Elias grins at that but clicks his phone screen off because they're herding him to meet up with his family, and everyone else can wait. The whole world can wait for a few hours while Elias hugs and thanks his family a million times and does his last set of media for the season. It’s both the easiest and the hardest one so far, and he’s eternally grateful for the hotel room sink at the end of the night, just as he was in the earliest hours of the morning. He holds his shaking hands under the water and counts the hours until his next flight, until the jet lag pulls him into another time zone yet again.

*

He parts ways with his family at the airport, four tickets to Toronto for the first of three layovers and the fifth to Minneapolis. His mother hugs him as they make it through security. “I’m so proud of you, Elias,” she says.

Elias pinches his lips together and nods because his voice might crack if he tries to say anything. There’s three hours of solitude in front of him, and he thinks he needs it. He needs to sink his ass into his seat and sink his face into his phone and forget about all the space he takes up in the world for a little while. Expectation rests heavy on his shoulders so he flips his hood up and over his forehead and doesn’t ask for a drink when the stewardesses patrol the cabin.

_im omw to pick u up now_

_text when u land_

Brock’s texts slide into his phone when they land and he turns off airplane mode, curling his toes in his sneakers. He hobbles down the aisle on sore legs and sends, _just landed. where are you?_

_cell phone lot!_

Brock meets Elias in a tank top and shorts that are way too short; he scrambles out of the car, skin golden and hair blonde, and picks Elias up in a spinning hug.

“Petey!” He hollers, arms encircled easily around Elias’ waist. Elias laughs but wrestles free.

“Good to see you too,” he says.

“Hey. What did I tell you?” Brock takes Elias’ bag and tosses it in the backseat.

“Um, ‘fuck Binnington’, right?” Elias quotes. 

“Well, that too.” Brock twirls his keys around his finger as they climb into the car. “But. I meant. I _told_ you that you had the Calder in the bag!”

Elias pulls his hoodie off and throws it over his shoulder to land on his bag. Brock rolls the windows down and they drive all the way to the lake like that, wind rushing through blonde hair and eyes squinting into summer sun.

“Training hard?” Brock asks.

“Every day,” Elias replies. “Ready for a break.”

“You came at the right time, then.” Brock merges onto the highway and they speed up, driving so fast Elias can’t even feel their wheels on the road.

“Slow car,” he murmurs anyway, because Brock’s got shit taste in cars, just like his taste in beer and hats. He can hear Brock scoff out a laugh beside him.

“You always want a little more, huh Petey?” Brock speeds up, just a little. Elias feels his stomach rise under his rib cage. It’s mid-morning on a Thursday in Minnesota and the road is empty. Elias imagines them speeding up even more, faster and faster until they peel away from the road entirely, pulling up into the sky.

*

When they pull into the driveway, the lake sparkles in the sun and Brock’s boat shines underneath it. Brock’s friends are all in the house chilling and watching TV when they walk in. Brock puts his hand on Elias’ back as he grips the handles of his bag and introduces him with an easy, “Hey everyone! This is Petey!” Coolie rushes over and sniffs him, looking at him through one blue and one brown eye. Elias scratches under his chin and Coolie wags his tail while nosing contentedly at Elias’ leg.

Brock’s friends are the epitome of American college hockey guys, all crushed beer cans and NBA jerseys with burned shoulders. He only recognizes Casey something-or-other from his draft class, who immediately wraps an arm around his neck and congratulates him on the season like they’ve been best friends the whole time. Elias knows that Rasmus likes him so he goes with it. 

They sit on the deck through the afternoon, drinking and talking on the steps. Elias doesn’t even realize he’s spent the whole time sinking deeper into Brock’s arm around his shoulder until the sun is setting and his head is in the crook of Brock’s neck. He tenses a little, suddenly very aware of how their bodies are flush and how Brock’s hand is so casually brushing his chest.

Casey’s on Elias’ other side. “How’s Rasmus doing, by the way?” he asks, pushing a hand through his bangs.

“Good, he’s good,” Elias says, nodding.

“I think he knew you were gonna get it,” Casey admits. “He’s a great guy, though, he really deserved to get nominated.”

Elias nods, feeling the space of Casey and Rasmus’ lives press against the space of his own. It’s strange to think about, how there are universes outside of his own, whole stories and experiences behind Casey’s offhand statement that he'll never know. “He did,” is all he says.

After dinner, everyone goes home and then it’s just Brock, Elias, and Coolie. Brock shows Elias around the house, the guest bedroom and bathroom, how the shower works, the gaming setup and pool table in the basement.

“It’s nice,” Elias says. “Lot of space for just one person, though.” He runs his hands over the felt of the pool table.

“Eh, I’m never alone here,” Brock says. They climb back up the stairs, Coolie following behind them with his tongue out. “There’s always friends around.”

Elias watches him shrug from behind, the stretch of fabric over his back. He’s beautiful in a movie way, like there’s something fake about him. Elias has been searching for it, digging and digging, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting to find what about Brock is a movie lie or where his facade is. 

But everything about Brock is genuine and real. He scoops Coolie up in his arms and flops them both back on the couch, laughing and tossing Elias the remote. They watch a recording of _The Bachelorette_ until Brock dozes off, head tilted back and snoring gently as Hannah B. cries about some boy on screen.

Elias bends over him and shakes his shoulder. “Brock,” he whispers.

Brock says something along the lines of, “Nghuh?” He blinks his eyes open and squints at Elias.

“I’m going to bed,” Elias says. “Do you still, uh—” he looks over at the TV. Hannah B. is kissing someone now “—want this on?”

“Oh, no,” Brock says, pushing himself up. “Let’s go to bed.”

Elias faintly blushes but just nods and follows him upstairs, off to bed, separate beds.

*

Elias falls for the lake. They buzz around it on the boat, surfing off the back and wiping out into the cold water. Brock even gets Elias to wear one of his stupid bucket hats with the excuse of shielding his face from the sun, but Elias knows that he just wants to get a picture of him in the hat to post on Instagram. He poses for the picture reluctantly, Coolie with his paws in his lap.

“You sure you’re not a fisherman?” Brock says with a laugh. Water drips down the front of his chest. His swim trunks cling to his thighs. 

“Don’t start,” Elias says.

They chirp and eventually Elias shoves Brock backwards into the water, and Brock splashes into the boat, soaking Elias right back, and they drive around on the water until they’re hungry and exhausted from the sun.

Downtown for lunch, it seems like Brock knows everyone, from the teen behind the counter at the deli who’s clearly starstruck but knows Brock’s order by heart to the little old lady who approaches them and asks if Brock’s lady friend liked the flowers he bought.

“Oh! Haha!” Brock says, freezing up but hugging the lady all the same. “The flowers are wonderful, thanks for all your help!”

The lady takes Elias’ hand and says, “Brock here came into my shop a few days ago and was asking all sorts of questions about getting a bouquet. He was so adamant about blue and yellow, that’s all he kept saying: ‘it needs to be blue and yellow’! So sweet of him! We fixed him up with these lovely little blue primroses; I bet whatever nice young lady he gave them to was _so_ happy with them!” The old lady smiles and squeezes Elias’ hand, but when Elias turns to Brock, he’s flushed red and he’s adjusting the brim of his hat.

They walk back to the house after lunch and chill in the kitchen at the island. In the center of the island sits a vase with flowers inside; the petals are royal blue with a ring of yellow around the center. Elias runs his finger over one, admiring it.

“They’re not, uh,” Brock murmurs, “for a ‘lady friend’. Just wanted something nice for the house.” He forces a laugh. Elias sits silently and cradles the petals in his fingers.

*

Elias is curled up on the couch with Coolie after dinner on his third night, petting his soft head lazily and not paying attention to the American reality show on the TV. He hears padding footsteps, then nothing, and he figures it must be Brock going into the bathroom, but when he looks up, Brock is standing there, in the entryway of the living room, staring at Elias and Coolie and looking like he just got checked into the boards.

“Hi,” Elias says.

“Hey,” Brock replies.

Brock is still just standing there weirdly, holding his arms strangely, not existing with the ease Elias has grown used to when it comes to Brock. He tilts his head.

“Do you want to…” he taps the couch next to him “sit?”

Coolie shifts a little, snuggling up closer against Elias’ stomach. Elias is distracted for a moment, and he gives Coolie’s face a quick fond scratch. When he looks up again, Brock almost looks like he’s gonna throw up. “You good?” he asks.

“Do you wanna go out?” Brock asks, and the words come out fast. Elias scrunches up his nose at that one, because he thought that in English, _going out_ was sort of… “—like, outside?” Brock tacks on, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder. “It’s quiet on the lake this time of day.”

“Oh. Sure.” Coolie whines when Elias stands, but he just turns to give him one final scratch on the top of his head before following Brock out through the back door out onto the deck. It’s warm and the sun is starting to set; the light reflects off the lake and turns everything golden. The deck is cool but not cold under Elias’ feet. Brock adjusts his hat, and his hair also catches the light, glowing.

“Let’s take the canoe,” Brock says, and he beckons Elias to follow him. A red canoe is leant against the side of the deck, and Elias and Brock carry it out to the dock before stepping in, rocking it gently as they sit and get comfortable. As they push out onto the lake, not even rowing, just allowing themselves to float, Brock leans back and hums in contentment. “Golden hour,” he murmurs.

Elias reaches out of the canoe and lets his hand skim along the water. He breaks the golden surface and the reflection ripples out, a tiny wave of gold spreading from beneath them. The lake is empty apart from them, their feet tangled up in their little red canoe. “Nice night,” he says in agreement, and it feels a little underwhelming, like he can’t actually sum into words the feeling of the evening. He could describe this night with a thousand sublime words of Swedish, but the only way he can put them into English is _nice_ and _great_ and _beautiful_ , none of which are wrong but none of which are quite right, either.

They talk a little, about nothing in particular. It’s comfortable and peaceful in their canoe, gliding directionlessly across the lake surface. The sun sets and the moon rises over the lake. It’s nearly full, and bright enough that it doesn’t seem dark out, even though the lake’s surface has turned a glossy black.

Elias looks up and admires the moon. It feels like the kind of night you could fall in love with. It feels like the kind of moon you could fall in love under. Brock sits across from him in the canoe and looks at him with stars in his eyes and Elias feels like he might float away.

“We should go fishing tomorrow,” Brock teases, and Elias groans.

“Do you _want_ me to ditch you for Hutty?” he replies, challenging Brock. They both lean in, toward each other and toward the challenge.

“I’ll treat you _way_ better than Hutty ever could.” The curve of Brock’s mouth is confident and assured. A bolt of arousal shoots down Elias’ back; he’s not sure if Brock doesn’t know what he’s doing with his mouth, or if knows _exactly_ what he’s doing.

“Make it… worth my while.” Two can play at this game. 

“Always gotta make things exciting for ya, Pete, huh?” Brock rocks the canoe, and Elias laughs, and it wouldn’t be a problem except he leans just the wrong direction at the wrong time and flips the whole thing over, tipping them both into the water.

“Fuck!” Brock splutters as they both come back up, soaked to the bone, scrambling to get a hold of the upturned canoe.

Elias gasps for breath and holds onto the canoe for dear life; the water is cold and Elias can feel is soaking into him, sapping the warmth from his hands and feet. They wordlessly swim the canoe back to the dock and climb out of the water, both shivering. Elias’ clothes are stuck to his skin all over, and when he looks up, Brock’s t-shirt is hugging his back muscles in a way that makes him blush.

Brock bends over to tie off the canoe, his shirt translucent and riding up on his back. Water drips off both of them onto the dock, forming miniscule streams and flowing back into the lake. Once Brock is finished with the canoe, he follows Elias back up onto the deck where they stand a moment, wringing the worst out of their shoes and hair.

“You’re idiotic,” Elias says, clenching his fist in a handful of his shirt and drenching the wood of the deck.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Brock says. “Rookie move.” He pushes his fingers up into his hair and shakes it out like he’s a wet dog. Elias watches fondly even though he’s in the splash zone.

“That’s okay.” Elias reaches out to pull a piece of kelp off Brock’s arm and drop it on the deck. “You made it exciting.”

Brock blinks at him like it’s a media scrum and he got asked a question he can’t possibly answer in a soundbite. Elias turns toward the door. The light off the moon shines down on the deck like the spotlight in Rogers Arena after a goal.

“Wait, wait,” Brock says, catching Elias’ hand in his own before he can open the back door. Elias turns to look at him, his wet dripping hair, his eyes that still seem to sparkle in the dark of the night. He loses his balance, just barely, and steps to steady himself. It moves him closer to Brock, so they’re nearly pressed together. He reaches up a hand, wanting to put it on Brock’s shoulder to steady himself, but he stops himself, his palm floating a few inches away from Brock’s chest.

“You’re so…” Elias mutters, but there’s no sentence he can form in the moment. Everything is messy and upside-down and glowing in the night. They’re soaking wet but Elias feels warm all over. Brock doesn’t say anything. He just keeps _looking_ at Elias like he’s waiting for something to happen, like he knows the bank pass is coming behind him and all he has to do is wait for Elias to send it down the ice.

Elias is soaking wet, and he’s twenty years old, and he just won the Calder trophy, and he’s in Brock’s home, and Brock’s in his head, and he’s tired of living in so many boxes, so he leans forward and kisses Brock.

They kiss until Elias’ lungs burn; they kiss until they’re stumbling back through the back door into the house, Coolie wagging his tail at their feet. They kiss and drip water on the hardwood, squeezing their fists in the sopping wet cotton of each other’s shirts. They kiss and walk and leave a water trail behind them, all the way to the stairs, all the way to the landing where Brock presses Elias against the wall and kisses his neck. They kiss against the railing and they kiss at the top of the stairs, the hallway leading back to the bedrooms behind them.

Brock’s hands are still wet and they push up at Elias’ shirt, touching the sensitive skin on his lower back and slipping just below the waistband of his shorts, brushing the elastic of his boxers. They kiss, but Elias feels himself freeze. His lips are kiss-swollen and Brock’s hard-on is pressing on his hip. They’re close, _so close_ , with the clear intention of getting closer. Elias suddenly remembers bad hookups and unfamiliar hands on his body and he feels the dread of touch creep down his back.

Brock must notice the hesitation, because he pulls away, taking his hands off Elias and asking, “Hey, you good? You’re dead-fishing on me a little bit.”

“I’m,” Elias says. “I haven’t…” It means everything and nothing at once, and Elias starts to panic when Brock takes a half-step back. He doesn’t want the distance, not now. But the closeness is rushing toward him faster than he can comprehend and make sense of and his brain twists it and transforms Brock’s calloused fingertips and broad palms into a strange touch, not the touch Elias has become comfortable with. He wishes he could articulate it, put the way he feels about the touch, the desire, and the anxiety into the words he doesn’t have. 

He doesn’t have to have them, because Brock just says, “Okay,” taking Elias’ hands in his own. “There’s no rush.”

Elias twists his hands to lace his fingers with Brock. He leans in, slowly, watching Brock to make sure he stays still. He kisses one corner of Brock’s mouth, and then the other. “Good night, Brock,” he murmurs into his skin. 

He walks down the hall and Brock watches him go. When Elias looks over his shoulder, Brock’s smiling dopily and swaying slightly.

Elias pulls off all his wet clothes and stands in the hot shower for a long time, legs shaking. It takes him ages to fall asleep that night. Brock is one room away, one wall between them. Brock with his angles and his curves and his belly laugh. Elias realizes with a shiver that he wants to kiss him again, touch him again, _more_. The touch doesn’t have to be dangerous, not when it’s Brock.

He falls asleep in the soupy heat with the hair standing up on his arms.

*

In the morning, Brock pops his head into the guest bedroom and says, “Wanna go for a swim?” 

Elias nods from where he’s lying on his side in bed. They look at each other for a moment silently. 

He gets up to pull on his trunks and stare at his bare chest in the mirror. He brushes a hand down his skin and pretends it's someone else’s. The anonymous, formless hand he imagines morphs and warps into Brock, tan and shaped like a model, his big hands with their cropped nails.

He shivers. Brock is magnetic. He’s different from anyone else. Elias isn’t afraid; he pulls a t-shirt on then walks into the master bedroom. “Brock?” he says.

“In the bathroom!” he calls, and Elias follows his voice into the master bath. He’s standing by the massive counter, in front of the elaborate bathtub.

“Hi,” Elias says.

“Hi,” Brock replies. He looks Elias up and down with a smile. “So… have we hit a point where I can tell you that I think you’re hot?”

Elias steps into his space, reaching up to flick a piece of fuzz from his shoulder and then letting it rest there. “I think,” he says with a smirk, “you dating fifteen skinny blondes this year pretty much filled me in on what your type is.”

Brock groans out a laugh. “It took me a while to put two and two together,” he says.

He bows his head toward Elias’ chest and then tilts it back up, their bodies close but not touching. Brock is just barely shorter than Elias; when he looks up at him through his lashes, Elias feels a rush of sensation through his body, like nothing he’s known before. He flexes his fingers, feeling it rush down his arms like lakewater. Brock catches his palm and rubs his thumb into Elias’ palm.

“Hi,” he says again.

“Hi,” Elias responds.

“I’m gonna kiss you now, okay?” Brock smiles, just barely. Elias feels another rush. He nods.

Brock pushes up one inch and kisses Elias. He’s tentative at first, and Elias just feels his lips press against his own, but after a beat it clicks and then it’s natural. He leans back into it, kissing back and anchoring himself by resting his hand on Brock’s bicep.

It’s tender and chaste as they slowly discover one another, they way they move and fit against each other. Brock’s hands are wrapped around his waist and Elias explores his arms and the small of his back, running his hands everywhere, wanting to map his skin. He wraps one hand around the nape of Brock’s neck, feeling his fingers through his hair. The pads of his fingers are cold against Brock’s warm neck, and Elias feels the warmth seep into him. Warmth is crawling into all of his corners, filling his body.

Brock carefully, gently, runs his tongue along Elias’ lip, and Elias opens his mouth, deepening the kiss. Elias hears a noise of pleasure come from his own throat and is surprised at himself, like he’s observing himself kiss Brock from afar. Elias has experience with kissing and some heavy petting here and there, but never like this, never so soft or gentle, never knowing the person like he knows Brock.

Brock pulls away for a second. He reaches a hand up to brush Elias’ bangs off his forehead, tucking a few locks of hair behind his ear with a tender touch. “Is this okay? Should we stop?” he asks.

Elias _looks_ at him, really takes a second to look at Brock. Warmth and sensation rushes through him. “No, don’t stop,” he says, shaking his head, and then they’re kissing again, even deeper than before. Elias tosses his reservations out the window and centers himself in his own body. He wants to fully experience this; he doesn’t want to watch from the outside.

He holds on tight and goes with it, kissing Brock back hungrily and greedily, feeling along the muscles in his back that he’s been appreciating all season long. Arousal grows in his body, and he feels it wind up tense in his gut when Brock cups his face in his hands. He starts walking them back, out of the bathroom, stumbling back into Brock’s bedroom. Elias is hot from the implication, feeling his body react. Brock is half-hard against his hip and Elias is too; they’re pressed up against each other, rubbing through their clothes.

Elias is making tiny involuntary noises of pleasure, gasping out against Brock’s mouth, which would probably be embarrassing if Brock didn’t groan in the back of his throat in response. Brock spins and falls back on the bed, pulling Elias down with him so they’re lying down. The pressure kicks up a notch, with one of Brock’s legs between Elias’, Brock rocking up his hips to meet him. 

Elias rolls his hips down experimentally, wanting to see and hear Brock’s reaction. Brock gasps out a moan against Elias’ mouth and presses back. Elias feels his dick through his swim trunks, pressing against Elias’ own hard dick. Brock pulls away from the kiss, panting. “Petey, ah, wanna,” he says, practically incoherent, holding Elias’ hips down against his own to grind. “But if you don’t wanna, I’ll go take a cold shower or whatever, it’s up to you.”

“I want to,” Elias says, sure of it, needing to chase the high of orgasm with Brock, needing to touch him and feel him more. “I’ve just, I’ve never, never all the way with someone.” He’s traded disappointing handjobs before, but nothing like this. Brock is already better than anything he’s known before, and he’s still got all his clothes on.

Brock rushes up to kiss him again quickly, just a peck. He drops back down onto the bed and looks up bashfully. “Will you fuck me?” he asks. Elias’ dick throbs in interest and his eyes widen in surprise at his own reaction. “It’s easier topping first time, you won’t have to worry about it hurting or anything.”

Elias licks his lips and nods, bending back down to kiss Brock again. “Let’s do it,” he says. 

“Hell yeah.” Brock strips off his shirt lightning-fast, and Elias takes a second to look at and appreciate his body.

“What did I say before?” Elias says breathily. “You look… like _that_.” He gestures down at Brock’s chest. Brock chuckles, but doesn’t say anything, instead sitting up and pulling Elias with him so Elias is straddling his lap. Brock tugs at the hem of Elias’ shirt, yanking it up and off him. They kiss more, and Elias runs his hands over Brock’s bare chest.

Then Brock is half-clambering, half-falling off the bed. Elias turns around to see what he’s doing to find Brock on his knees. The sight goes straight to his dick, and he lets out a strangled noise as Brock reaches up for Elias’ waistband. He shifts to sit at the edge of the bed and lifts his hips so Brock can shuck off his swim trunks.

He’s not wearing anything underneath, and his dick springs free, hard and red. Brock grins, and, looking up at Elias and biting his bottom lip, he says, “Can I?”, and all Elias can do is nod.

Brock wraps his lips around the head and his fingers around the base and Elias nearly comes right then. Brock’s mouth is warm and soft, and he laps at the head with his tongue. Elias reaches down to thread his fingers through Brock’s hair, clutching at the long locks.

Brock takes his time. He hollows out his cheeks and runs his tongue along the underside in practiced repeated motions. It’s so… _wet_ and warm and Brock is staring up at Elias like he needs it, and Elias’ legs shake and his brain turns off in a different way than it ever did during a media scrum. Brock works Elias’ dick in and out of his mouth, his head bobbing in rhythm, and Elias is certain he’s gonna come if Brock doesn’t slow his roll.

Elias taps Brock’s head fast, and Brock pulls off with a soft _pop_ , looking up at Elias from between his legs. “Fuck, sorry, didn’t wanna come too soon,” he says, squeezing the base of his dick.

Brock nods, and licks his lips, and then he’s climbing back on the bed, kissing Elias again and touching his legs, his shoulder, his neck. He pulls away and leans over to the bedside table and rustles through the drawer until he returns with a small bottle of lube and a condom, which he presses into Elias’ hands.

“You’re prepared,” Elias says wryly.

“I’d say _hopeful_ , rather than prepared.”

Brock lies on the bed on his back, and Elias kneels beside him. Brock’s dick is tenting his swim trunks, and Elias rubs him through the fabric. “I’ve never, uh,” he says, gesturing at Brock with the lube. He would feel embarrassed, but Brock doesn’t even miss a beat, taking the lube back from him and wiggling out of his shorts.

“Watch me,” he says, voice husky.

He squirts it liberally on his hands and rubs it on his fingers before reaching down and spreading his legs. He presses one finger at his rim, working around the edge before slipping it inside. He clenches his toes and takes a second to breathe before continuing, working it inside him and building up a rhythm. Elias isn’t sure what to do but watch with an open mouth as Brock slips in a second, and eventually a third finger. He moans gently and rocks back onto his hand, and Elias fumbles with the condom, failing at ripping it open a few times before he gets it open and rolls it on with hands that won’t stop shaking.

“Yeah, Petey, do it, I’m ready,” Brock says, three fingers deep in his own ass and squeezing his eyes shut.

Elias gets a hand around his dick and presses against Brock’s hole. He braces around his body, bent down so they’re facing one another, nearly flush, breathing the same air. It feels like something has changed in the air, like there’s an electricity that wasn't there before. Elias’ body is taut and he can feel Brock’s warmth radiate up from underneath him. There’s something impossibly intimate about the moment, and when he finally, _finally_ , starts to press inside, he kisses Brock deeply like he’s a lifeline.

The both moan into the kiss as Elias slowly presses further in. Brock’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, and Elias can feel himself flush red all the way down his chest. He gets all the way inside, Brock squeezing around him tightly, and he nearly loses all his English, only able to say “Brock” and “fuck” as Brock clenches around him and wraps his arms around his neck.

“Yes, Petey, don’t stop, okay?” Brock says. “Can you, fuck, can you thrust?”

Elias pulls back out, just slightly, dragging so deliciously along Brock’s insides, and he knows he’s not going to last long, not with Brock muttering encouragement to him and pressing their bodies together along every plane. He thrusts shallowly, trying to find a rhythm, rocking his hips back and forward.

“Yes, yes,” Brock says, urging him on.

As Elias works in and out of Brock, the two of them kissing and breathing into each other’s mouths, Brock’s palms pressing flat along Elias’ back and their legs tangled, Elias feels like the space they inhabit is overlapping. Something about the sex, about finding this supreme closeness, blurs Elias’ edges where he’s touching Brock. For this moment alone, their spaces are one and the same. 

“Brock, Brock, Brock,” he mutters. He pushes his hands under Brock’s knees to get more leverage, spreading his legs up and apart as he drives into Brock, deeper with every thrust.

“Petey, God, oh my God, holy fuck, don’t stop.” Brock holds Elias tight to him, scrambling for purchase along Elias’ sweating back. Everything is so tight, and hot, and Brock is asking for more, and all Elias can do is thrust, chasing after the orgasm that he feels rushing toward him. He presses in deep and holds for a second, catching his breath, taking a moment to just grind his hips against Brock’s ass. He must do _something_ right, because Brock’s hips jerk up and his mouth drops open. “Holy fuck, do that again,” he says.

Elias is eager to please, so he focuses on repeating whatever he just did; they grind their hips against each other, the friction tight and delirious. “You feel so good, Brock,” Elias says, not sure about sexy talk but just trying to communicate all the crazy firecracker thoughts that burst behind his eyes every time Brock squeezes around him. “You’re perfect, you’re amazing.” 

Elias slips his hands out of Brock’s knees; he props himself up with one arm and uses the other to cradle Brock’s face. He looks into Brock’s eyes, lost in affection and desire for the ridiculous American boy beneath him. Brock smiles up at him, his breath coming out ragged, and Elias smiles back.

He presses in as deep as he can and rolls his hips again. “Oh my God, Petey, fuck, oh God, I’m gonna come, holy fuck,” Brock says. Brock wraps a hand around his own dick and jerks it furiously as Elias thrusts as deep as he can and leans forward to kiss Brock’s neck, and then Brock is coming over his stomach with a groan. Elias’ thrusts lose rhythm as he watches Brock toss his head back against the sheets, eyes fluttering shut.

He squeezes around Elias and Brock grabs Elias’ hand and kisses the palm. “Elias,” he moans, and Elias is falling forward and coming hard with a yelp, harder than he’s ever come before. Doing it inside someone, all that tight wet heat, is unlike anything, the pleasure incomparable.

His chest is against Brock’s and Brock is petting his hair as he comes down, murmuring his name. Elias slips out and ties off the condom, walking to the trash with shaking legs to dispose of it. When he walks back to the bed he drops down next to Brock, who’s still lying flat.

“Um.” Elias looks down at Brock. He puts his hand on Brock’s shoulder, rubbing his thumb against it. “Was that. Okay?”

Brock looks up at him, starry-eyed. “Dude. Yeah. That was… _way_ better than okay.” He turns onto his side and reaches over to brush Elias’ hair back. They lie like that for a minute, staring in each other’s eyes. Brock wraps an arm around Elias’ waist and pulls him closer, and Elias gets his arms around Brock’s neck to touch his soft hair.

“Of course you’re a cuddler,” Elias laughs.

“Oh shush.” He kisses Elias’ shoulder.

*

They go out on the boat and Brock cuts the engine so he can kiss Elias. They spin over the still surface of the water. Elias can feel himself burning but it doesn’t hurt; everything here is soft and warm and gentle.

Brock dives into the water and flicks his hair back when he comes up for air. Elias follows him; they swim around each other in circles until Brock comes up from below and anchors himself on Elias' shoulders.

“Tell me if I move too fast,” he says. “Everyone always tells me I fly by the seat of my pants.” His hair is wet and sticks to his neck, and they tread water around each other for a while, just looking at one another and feeling out the moment, the way skin feels underwater and the kelp floating by their feet.

“I think I kind of like that about you,” Elias says. “You have good instincts. You’re so… _real_.” It takes him two tries to get through _instincts_ but it sounds good once it's in the air. Brock is _real_ and he’s _here_. There’s a Brock-shaped bit of consciousness in the world and it feels like Elias has finally realized what’s inside it, finally understood its angles and curves.

Brock smiles and dips underwater again. The lake is massive and seemingly boundless; water stretches out in all directions with no interruption. Elias floats on his back while watching Brock flutter around and imagines himself as the lake, boundless without division, filling the entire space he occupies.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> this fic became very special to me as i wrote it! the scope really grew and changed over time and it feels very close to my heart <3
> 
> if you'd like, you can find me on tumblr and/or twitter also @ raregoose!


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